


Sweetest Perfection

by ChelseaMouse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelseaMouse/pseuds/ChelseaMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[...] Anyway the blonde doctor was honest enough, at least to himself, to admit that his highly unusual, apparently asexual, talldarkandhandsome friend made him happier than everything else in his life after the army, so he didn't mind having to put up with some weirdness. [...]</p>
<p>or in which John is a very forbearing person and Sherlock... well, he is Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Perfection

John squirmed under the blanket, unable to find a comfortable position on the couch. _Bloody Sherlock Holmes..._ , he couldn't help but think.

It had been six months since they started living together, and despite the current bad mood John wasn't that much displeased with the whole arrangement. Sherlock could be defined “a man of various quirks”, and while most of them were just roll-of-the-eyes-and-yell-a-little worth (human body parts in the fridge, the kitchen table always so covered with chemicals and stuff that they had never been able to eat on it), some of them were biggest-teapot-in-the-house-and-silently-pinching-of-the-nose worth, which even the antisocial genius had learned to read as a sign of impending storm (like when he actively stalked and/or deduced every girl who appeared to be even remotely interested in John), and some were even _pleasurable_ (almost everything that had to do with that violin of his). Not that he was going to tell him -nor the flatmate seemed to give a bloody flying rat about John's mood in reaction to his habits.

Anyway the blonde doctor was honest enough, at least to himself, to admit that his highly unusual, apparently asexual, talldarkandhandsome friend made him happier than everything else in his life after the army, so he didn't mind having to put up with some weirdness. And nobody could say that Sherlock did anything to purposely annoy John -the key word being, in fact, purposely. He just seemed to be... higher than that. As if worrying about the structural integrity of their flat, or trying to avoid Ms. Hudson's wrath, or even getting worked up over the genius' health after he collapsed ( _again!_ ) from lack of sleep and food was something really useless and mundane, bound to occupy only lesser being's mind.

As soon as John understood that, he started coming up with plans to take care of his friend ( _babysit!_ , he snorted when he really wanted to upset Sherlock, which was, actually, quite often): they were little things, like stirring more sugar than usual in his tea when on a case, but they worked pretty well -sometimes he even succeded in appeasing his sweet tooth by shoving a raisin scone in that witty mouth. Not that he ever thought about his mouth, obviously. John was a friend _and_ a doctor, it was only natural for him to be concerned.

What really struck the ex-army doctor was the way Sherlock, right after coming down from the adrenaline high of a good case, seemed to revel in human touch. For someone often pointed out as a freak, a psychopath, or a “high-functioning sociopath”, as the detective himself once affirmed, his reactions appeared to be quite normal: they were only more reserved, maybe even timid, than other people's, and, John believed, most of the time unconscious.

For example there was this one very violent case, in which a serial rapist took a liking in blondish, short but well-built no more than nine years old boys, and, not satisfied with _just_ frightening and traumatizing them for the rest of their lives, after his third victim he started to kill them slicing their throat with something quite evidently not sharp enough -or at all. They were cruel murders, and painful ones.

John's reaction had been white-hot rage, and when they were finally able to catch the man he let it all out in fists. Curiously enough, not one cop seemed to notice the suspect being transformed in a motionless (but impressively still alive!) pulp, and John spent one hour in the shower afterwards, trying to wash away the horror. When he finally came out of the bathroom he was quite surprised to be welcomed in the living room by freshly made steaming hot tea on the coffee table and a very still Sherlock on the sofa.

During the case the genius had been his usual, detached self, but it was now clear that the violence of it all had hit him stronger than he was willing to admit. And of course nobody missed the scary resemblance between John and the young victims, and if his age and the army training sheltered the doctor from any possible menace, Sherlock could still feel the icy cold shiver that went down his spine the first time he was forced to face the fact that his friend could be in any kind of danger. That he could die. That he could, one day, prefer one of those plain, boring, annoyingly feminine girlfriends he sometimes had sex with, to this, to the cases, to him. It was a very unpleasant thought and, for all his efforts, he couldn't push it away from his mind palace.

So, once back home, he tried to do something that would dispel that nasty idea of _John leaving_ , and the most logical course of action seemed to be tea. John found a bizarre form of contentment in the beverage, and, despite being “a lazy prat” most of the times (in John's word), Sherlock was perfectly able to make excellent tea... he just enjoyed it SO much more when John made it for him. Not that he was ever going to tell him.

John was no genius, but he had learnt to read Sherlock and his mood swings -the only problem was that the detective never had this kind of reaction to a case before, no matter how violent. _Or maybe he always had, but never showed..._ he mused: God knew if the younger man needed a lot of time to adjust to others and trust them.  
But sensing the increasing tension and the inability to process it in any way, John felt the urge to help him and did the only thing he could come up with: he hugged Sherlock -who promptly pulled away with a bewildered look on his face.

“Would you please trust me on this?” he asked drily. “You need to feel, right now, and human touch is definitely the best way. Your skull doesn't count.”

Sherlock didn't say a word, but from his expression it was apparent that he was lost and quite far out of his element. John huffed and sit on the sofa right next to his flatmate, grabbing the mug on the coffee table.

“Sherlock, this tea is amazing!” he spluttered after the first sip in utter disbelief. Sherlock smirked knowingly. “Why the hell you never said you could produce something like this?!”

The taller man shrugged, as meaning he never considered it important (John wouldn't bet on it, but he sensed some kind of smugness).

“You really aren't ever going to stop surprising me, are you?” the doctor smiled, leaning his head on the other man's shoulder. Sherlock stiffened, but this time he didn't move away. After a couple of minutes he even relaxed, and let his own head rest on John's, inhaling his scent and feeling very warm. If Sherlock had known the word, he would have said he felt _cosy_.

After that one time it became some sort of habit: after every “real” case they got, John would shower away the pain and the abhorrence, just to come out in the living room to delicious tea and one incredibly pliant Sherlock Holmes.

At first also the touching pattern would remain unchanged, but after the first few times the detective found himself revelling more and more in John's physical presence: starting with holding his hand, proceeding to actually hug him, until, just a week before, he hadn't even waited for him to finish his cuppa, and laid his head on the doctor's lap. Awkward as it may have been, John wouldn't have changed it for the world: sleeping just like that the young genius looked so utterly peaceful the blonde man's heart skipped a beat.

Which made the current situation even more absurd. “Genius my freaking arse!” John muttered, tossing and turning, eyelids giving up to complete exhaustion.

When they came home that afternoon after a particularly long and tiring chase, Sherlock was doubting his own work, which was a first per se. So he went back to Scotland Yard, just to make sure “that bunch of idiotic monkeys” had been able to properly collect all of the evidence for the trial, but left John at home: the man was obviously very tired and could use some sleep.

The doctor interpreted it as a nice gesture and accepted to play the role of the weaker one: besides, he really was tired, so he took a long and nice shower and afterwards, completely naked but for the small towel wrapped around his hips, he moved toward his bedroom door... to find it oddly sealed. The key wasn't in the lock, but luckily all the indoor keys of the flat were exactly identical. He looked around for a replacement, but found none. Starting to feel tricked he pulled out his phone and wrote a sms to his very oblivious flatmate -because, _obviously_ , Sherlock wouldn't take the bloody call.

_Of course I know nothing about our keys, John. What do you think I am, a magician? -SH_ was the hasty reply.

_No, Sherlock, I think you are a sly bastard._

_Now, now, no need to swear. It makes your language sound very poor. What would your readers say? -SH_

_They would have already killed you! What did you do to the bloody keys???_

_I should hope you mean it in a figurative way. -SH_

_What could you possibly have used them for? All of them?_

_I wonder why you so quickly drew to the conclusion I am to blame. -SH_

_You ALWAYS are to blame for EVERYTHING that happens to our flat!_

_Now you are just being unfair. The wall totally provoked me. -SH_

_You are insane, you know that?_

_Interesting point of view. What does that say about your constant (and willing!) putting up with my weirdness? -SH_

_I have a thing for dark, curly hair. Now focus, Sherlock: what did you do to the damn keys?_

_I may or may not have used them, for the sake of_ science _! -SH_

_Sherlock..._

_What! How could I predict that alloy would melt so fast? -SH_

_You MELTED our indoor keys? ALL of them? How am I supposed to get dressed?_

_Well, good thing the weather's rather nice today... -SH_

_I wanted to take a nap!_

_We have a perfectly good couch. -SH_

_I AM BLOODY NAKED, SHERLOCK!_

_Again, I fervently hope you are talking figuratively. -SH_

_You're a prick. I'm using your blanket to cover me._

_Your pettiness is hardly my concern. I'll take appropriate countermeasures when I come home. -SH_

And with that John stopped answering (because, really, what was he supposed to answer _THAT_?!?), he sprawled on the couch tucking himself in Sherlock's blanket and, after a good twenty minutes of swearing under his breath, he fell in a deep sleep.

He woke up because he needed the bathroom. Being in the army meant that, however deep your slumber may be, the second you are awake you are ready: John, brain perfectly active to contrast any physical attack but still a little misty for other things, was rapidly taken aback by the fact that he was in a bed. In his bed. Then, with a touch of worry, he felt pants on his body otherwise naked, and he was pretty sure he hadn't put them on himself. Finally, panic chasing the leftover dizziness away, he sensed a presence right beside him: he turned on his flank and, from under the duvet, an incredibly catlike Sherlock snuggled against his bare chest, nose just a couple millimetres away from his skin, his breath a ghostly touch on his belly button. 

The temptation was too much: with his left hand the shorter man moved some strand of Sherlock's hair away from his completely relaxed face. To his surprise, not only the genius didn't wake up, but his locks felt kind of humid, meaning he probably got home, moved John to his room (the doctor's brain mercifully skipped on the “putting pants on” bit) and then took a shower no more than half an hour ago: he must have been a psychological and physical wreck, and he probably didn't want to wake up his flatmate to get his usual “emotional decompression”.

John smiled to himself, went to the toilet (noticing on the way that the lock on his door had been burglarized) and crawled back to bed.

When he felt Sherlock's warm body cringing even nearer then before, his forehead against the crook of his neck, he couldn't resist and patted his head: the genius seemed to move ever so slightly, leaning more on the oh so needed touch. John's smile turned into an outright grin and, after kissing the mop of dark hair very lightly, he muttered “Brat”.

“You love me.” was the sleepy reply, voice hoarse with fatigue.

John turned crimson red, but didn't answer to that. After all, Sherlock was probably right.

**Author's Note:**

> second fic ever, fist in this fandom: hope you liked and enjoyed.  
> totally unbeta'd & unbritpick'd, so if you find something grievously wrong, feel free to let me know!  
> i really hope you have time to give me a little feedback, so i can get better, but just seeing someone actually reads feels incredible, so... thank you! \\(^o^)/
> 
> the title is from a song i love very much, by Depeche Mode. i really don't know why, but i feel like sherlock would like it.


End file.
